


Summer: 1999

by Defnotmeyo



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 08:32:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10532757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defnotmeyo/pseuds/Defnotmeyo
Summary: It's baseball season and mostly, things are going well.





	

If one said Fox Mulder was headed into the Summer of 1999 in a more-than-optimistic-frame-of-mind, it would be like denying that Walter Skinner had a proclivity towards shiny pinstriped work shirts. One couldn’t repudiate that which was impossible to disprove (and trust Fox Mulder, Skinner’s affinity for those shirts was a topic of conversation between himself and his partner, at least twice a month. Those were LONG road trips, after all).

The sun in D.C. was markedly scorching and the humidity just shy of oppressive. May decided to drop its four inches of rain in what felt like an “all day, er’ry day,” Southeast sort of fashion that left the partners battling mold near their lone window sill. And since their little trip out to see the Brown Mountain Lights, they DID NOT fuck around with mold.

Mulder didn’t like fucking with the heat and humidity, either, but in the Summer of ‘99 he was armed with a few facts he rarely strode into summer with. 

Fact. The Yankees were tracking and beating the shit outta the Orioles. Nothing like feasting on grown mens’ tears at Camden Yards. 

Fact. One of Walter Skinner’s shiny dress shirts had been cut off in the E.R. and thus would never see the light of day again. Maybe its replacement would be more subdued.

Fact. Although heat sucked, Scully tended to eventually walk sans jacket in heavy humidity, and lately she’d taken to wearing these tiiiiiiiiight, and sleeveless, little tops under her business dress so… their lunch field trips had become much more… scenic. 

Fact. Someone else on the planet thought Scully was in love with him. Sure. That person tried to psychically kill her, subsequently have his heart ripped out, and now was dead. But Mulder knew what they said about beggars and choosers and when in doubt he always chose to believe. 

Fact. Scully could, in fact, be convinced to indulge in a little light-hearted fun, especially on beautiful spring evenings. And that light-hearted fun could, in fact, contain himself, one Fox William Mulder, pressed up against Scully’s firm backside, engaged in a little spring time batting practice.

And so, on May 18th 1999, Mulder, armed with facts, truth, justice, summer heat, and the American Way, whistling La Vida Loca and still pissed enough about The Phantom Menace that beer on a Tuesday sounded like a fabulous idea, officially asked Dana   
Scully on a date. Sort of officially.

Well. He implied she should go on a date with him.

And by date he meant they should hang out after work. For a drink. At happy hour. 

Okay, Fox Mulder invited his best friend, Dana Scully, who he had an outside idea might like him, to a bar called Hank’s, to indulge in Taco Tuesday. 

It might not have been a date but it was something, and when she smiled that puzzled little smile, with that questioning tilt of her head, shrugged and agreed, Mulder figured something was always better than nothing.

And a whole hell of a lot better than the nothing their fall season had included, like Diana Fowley, Jeffrey Spender, and Peyton Ritter. The cold weather had been shit but this spring he felt buoyant. Mulder hesitated to use the word hopeful but shit.

The Yankees were kicking ass and Scully was hitting pop flies with him and saying yes to Taco Tuesday at Hank’s.

“Keeeeeey-rist it’s hot, Scully,” he muttered, doing the bar stool shuffle around her hips and settling in next to her. "If I was running any looser down there they coulda paid me for mopping the bathroom floor.“

She rolled her eyes and huffed a chuckle, indulgent of the toilet humor but with that little side eye and smile he was just starting to get used to.

"Heyo, what’s up my man? How are you this afternoon? My name’s Jake and I’ll be your bartender slash taco connesiuer today, bruh. Now I got you some drinks coming up courtesy of your girl, Dana, but have you scoped the tacos yet?”

Mulder did not want to be an easy fan of Jake’s, but considering Scully had yet to level him, Mulder decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. The man had an easy laugh and smile and his eyes on Scully were appreciative but mostly above the neckline so he couldn’t be all bad.

Order placed, the bartender walked off only to quickly return with two Coronas and two shots of Patron. 

“Scully!”

“You wanted tacos and day drinking Mulder. You know I don’t do anything half-way.”

They clicked glasses and Mulder knew the rim garnish wouldn’t be the only salty residue on his pants if he spent the rest of the afternoon watching his partner suck limes and knock back shots. 

He directed his gaze just past her bobbing Adam’s apple and back up, trying to remain a gentleman. Which was infinitely more difficult when he met her back up at the top of his visual expedition and realized she’d been following his little Scully-neckline tour. 

He coughed, his eyes catching on the small TV above the bar. “So, I think the Yankees are gonna take it this year, Scully.”

“Mulder, you say that every year.”

Another shot of tequila magically appeared in front of them and Mulder cut a look at Jake, who grinned with those damn straight, white teeth and California tan, and who managed to not get his balls shot off when he winked and said, “To Taco Tuesday bruh. You keep bringing her around, we’ll keep up the business. Win-win.”

The chuffed laugh again. 

The side eye. 

The self-hair tuck and head duck. Okay that one is new. 

“Anyway, I don’t think this is their year Mulder. And it’s not even the All-Star Break so I would, statistically, hesitate to crown a champion.”

He fights back without thinking. “Posada is playing well though. And Chili has been hitting-”

The second shots are gone when she interrupts him. “Jorge is playing fine but Pettitte is playing like shit.”

“If by like shit you mean-” he hard stops, pulls all the emergency levers. “Scully!”

That damn smile again.

“You absolutely know how to hit a baseball, Scully, don’t you?”

“Bruh! Y'all are gonna drink us out of Patron!” Jake smiles and winks. Mulder smiles and wonders who the fuck is ordering all this tequila. 

“Mulder,” Scully speaks, and he closes his eyes, letting the sound wash over him.

This is not a tone of voice he’s ever heard before. She is sort of FIDDLING with the cuff of his rolled up short sleeve and her lips are pouted in this faux innocence that instantly colors in his mind to them wrapped around his cock.

“I grew up as a tomboy with two brothers, 8 miles from Qualcomm.”

“Ahhh Scully. You’re a Padres fan? Yeck.”

“Even worse, I hesitate to confess.”

Mulder feels his blood drain and he’s not sure if it is fear or arousal. "Shit. The Sox.“

Another scoff. "Mr. October.”

There is a whistle from the bar and now Mulder is moderately annoyed with the affable Jake the Bartender. 

“Damn, bruh. Your girl knows her baseball.”

He’s been had but he is not the least bit mad.

“Scully! The A’s? Well at least we’ll never fight on baseball night. The A’s aren’t winning shit with that roster.”

She dips her fingers along the top level of a glass of sweating ice water and flicks the moisture at him.

Mulder blinks and flinches, and is quite certain he’s never been more thoroughly in love. 

“Oh, I dunno. I think Billy Beene knows what he’s doing out there. He’s a math geek.” 

The tacos, halibut - like Jake had recommended - have been decimated and there are 8 total shots of patron and two and a half total Coronas missing from the bar and Mulder can’t remember the last time a Tuesday has felt so fucking content. He feels normal, if more than a little tipsy. He feels like he has gotten out of the fucking car for once. And if this is what Scully was talking about, fuck it, he is in. 

All the way. 

With the friendly neighborhood bartender and the stable job (they haven’t been killed in a few weeks anyway), and the hotass girlfriend (because she is fucking hot and well… girlfriend is close right?), he’s in love with what this life could be. 

The car is stopped Scully, he thinks.

And is her hand on his knee?

Fuck stopping the car. He’s put it in reverse and driven the car off a cliff. The car doesn’t even exist. 

They are debating between desserts when Scully squeezes his knee. “Mulder. Shh!”

It’s pointless to stop talking and breathing over the dim roar of a bar but he does anyway. 

“Mulder. That’s an ice cream truck.”

Without waiting for him, she’s out of the bar, open Corona in hand.

Jake smiles affably. “That fucker rolls up every Tuesday. Y'all get shit faced on the tacos and he cashes in.”

“How much?”

Jake winks. “On me today bruh. Your lady is hot and talks baseball, and most of these hosers stayed seated to listen. Seated means tips. But you put a ring on that or I will, next time.”

Mulder nods, sliding out of the bar so hard he almost knocks the napkin holder and chair over. He flings a twenty at Jake and is out after Scully, praying to a God he doesn’t believe in that she doesn’t try to shoot the tires on the ice cream truck out.

They are shitfaced. And armed. Fuck. They are the worst FBI agents ever.

He is still half jogging when he catches her at the D.C. metro police car parked on the corner. 

Scully sways a little uncertainly, Corona in hand, open and half empty, and says, “Sir, I am Special Agent Dana Scully, FBI. I can produce my badge. But Agent Mulder and myself are running down a lead on this ice cream van and if you don’t-“

He steps in. “Whoa whoa, Agent Scully, thank you. Down on that street, here’s ten bucks. I’ll have what you’re having.” 

His gentle press and her compliance to follow his advice speak 100 percent to the amount of Patron consumed in the hour.

Mulder sheepishly shrugs at the cop as she shuffles off. “Officer Cross,” he reads the cop’s name tag, “I’m sorry, sir.”

“That was an open container, son,” the older cop interrupts him. “You’re federal and I would prefer not to get involved in this shit, but you better cuff her before I do.”

The last sentence is said with a leer that makes Mulder want to punch the cop in the throat but he’s surprisingly calm. “Take a hike, Cross. We’re catching a cab without the red and blues.”

It’s a different kind of summer. 

In the summer of 1990, if a man had talked about Diana like that, Fox Mulder would be in jail for battery. In the summer of 1997, if a man had talked about Dana Scully like that, Mulder would be in jail for murder.  
But this is the summer of 1999. He’s armed with facts, and coy smiles, and strangers telling him she’s in love with him after all. They’ve shared baseball, and hell, she almost let him kiss her once (twice with Eddie).

They’ve ridden through the worst of Diana Fowley, he’s sure, and they’ve slowly dug out of the hole they’d been buried in. 

In the summer of 1999, Fox Mulder catches up to Dana Scully as she’s ordering two coconut snow cones in the sweaty, oppressive humidity of summer D.C.

“Oh, my God Mulder! I’m glad you’re here. I can’t carry all this.”

“Snow cones, Scully? I thought you wanted ice cream.”

“I’m a Cali girl, Mulder. We eat shaved ice.” She hands a blue dripping cone to him before taking her own.

“Oh, right. 8 miles from Qualcomm Stadium.” He tips the cup back, munching some of the ice. Whatever. It’s summer. He bumps her shoulder. “Let’s go home.”

He doesn’t ask where home is and she doesn’t tell him. They’re closer to his place so she crashes on his bed and he takes the couch. There is no making out. There are no awkward fumblings onto his mattress. They’re best friends.

They are best friends the rest of that summer, and into the fall. Mulder begins to think he could make his move but each time they hang out he hesitates just a minute and that sends her running for the hills. He doesn’t press the issue because well… they have all the time in the world, right?

Until his head starts aching. Until he pitches his dinner into the toilet and comes out of the bathroom, smiling at her like nothing is wrong. Until that little voice that sounds oddly like his father – and his mother – comes back chanting at him, “Samantha - just gonna give up - just like that huh? Got some pussy and you’re a pussy right, Fox?”

He will see a rubbing of an artifact, Skinner will hire them out as casefile mercenaries, and Scully will both flirt and plead with him in an elevator. His head will ache. And Samantha’s ghost will linger in the corners. And in the back of his mind, he will remember the Summer of 1999…

“Scully?”

“Mmm?”

“I’ve never ordered a coconut snow cone before,” lick, “but still,” lick, “Scully this is some good shit.”

“Mmm.”

They’re on a three-foot-high rock wall around a small park in his neighborhood. 

She’s decimated half her snow cone. The Corona bottle met its maker in the trashcan next to the park. 

“Scully?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m out of the car, Scully. Wherever you want that to be.” He’s drunk. And it’s the most honest confession he’s ever made to her.

That smile. A quirk. That side eye. A sigh. “You’re never out of the car, Mulder. And that’s okay. I’m there, with you.”

“Scully?”

“Mmm?”

He tips back the last of his snow cone. Some of the blue coconut flavoring splashing on his jawline and he can feel it run the length of his jugular and neck but it’s so hot he doesn’t care. 

“I bet the Yankees take it in four this year.”

He won’t be around to see the Yankees take it in four.

She smiles. Opens her eyes towards his neck. Licks the tip of her index finger and draws it up the blue coconut line of his sternal muscle, along to the backside of his jaw. Sucks the flavor off.

He’s sure that image could finish him the rest of his life.

“Mulder?”

“Yeah.” Gravely. His voice isn’t that deep. Most days.

“I bet the A’s break .500.”

As they walk away from the truck, he guffaws and shoves her shoulder a bit.

They’d both win their bets. But by October, neither cares.

And at some point, when his brain is finally quiet, Mulder thinks to himself, “You idiot. You had all day that day. Just to kiss her. All fucking day.” 

He thinks of her in the office that day, her face pleading to be segued into mischief. He thinks of her at the bar, sucking down Patron. He thinks of her running down a cop to trace an ice cream truck.

He’s strapped to a hospital bed, and people think he’s crazy, but he knows one thing. The next chance he gets to kiss Dana Scully, he’s taking it. He won’t need validation, and he won’t need an excuse.

When the ball drops on New Year’s Eve, he tells himself it’s not a cop out


End file.
